


Made in America

by voodoochild



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Clothing Kink, Gangsters, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-14
Updated: 2011-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-26 01:45:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He taught me how to dress … how to use knives and forks and things like that at the dinner table, about holdin’ a door open for a girl. If Arnold had lived a little longer, he could’ve made me pretty elegant."<br/>- Charlie "Lucky" Luciano, in regards to Arnold Rothstein.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Made in America

**Author's Note:**

> Written for cloudytea's [Boardwalk Empire Comment Ficathon](http://cloudytea.livejournal.com/138685.html#comments), for the prompt "AR/Lucky, tailor-made".
> 
> *Edited to fix stupid historical inaccuracies that I should have researched better.

Red.

Your first meeting, twelve-year-old Charlie with a split lip and a gash on his forehead, spitting and howling from where your bodyguard had knocked him to the ground. His punishment for trying to pick your pocket and not even having the courtesy to be circumspect about it.

You'd waved the guard off and taken out your handkerchief. Blood red that day, and he had stared up warily at you as you offered it to him.

 _Here. Clean yourself up._

A slow blink. No fear.

 _Come stai, busone?_

His accent is charming, unlike other Italians you know. He speaks with a forthrightness that you envy, but will need to be kept in check. His assertion? Well, it's certainly accurate, though you haven't indulged in sodomy in quite a while.

You simply continue to offer the handkerchief, and eventually he takes it. His blood stains the silk a deeper red, and you nod to your guard to assist him off the ground.

 _Keep your hand light, next time,_ you tell him, and he grins.

*****

White.

Sixteen years old, newsboy cap covering his black curls. Lying in a nest of sheets without a stitch on, veins shot full of some of your best product. Botticelli couldn't have painted anything more beautiful. You don't normally come down past Union Square, but Morello's information is worth it, and it allows you opportunities such as this.

Hazy, wide eyes, and you could so easily slip a needle into your arm and sink into his delirium. The itch is there, as it always is. But you can tell he's more charming demon than fallen angel; he'd lead you into hell if you let him.

 _Howzit going, AR?_ , he asks as you sit on the bed beside him. _You sample the product yet? I did good, right?_

 _Oh, Charlie,_ you sigh. _Yes, you did well._

His smile is worth the lie as he reaches for you. Charlie is warm and pleading and it would take a stronger man than you currently are to resist such a temptation. The sheets are incongruously clean and soft, and you think of him spread out in your townhouse - flushed and needy and accessible whenever you wanted him. Cutting, sarcastic mouth wrapped around your cock, learning obedience and duty on his knees.

He curls up against you, nuzzling into your collar, and you vow that nothing will touch him.

*****

Blue.

He is your right hand, your sword arm, and he must look the part.

You pay for suits upon suits: pinstripes, tweeds, merinos, seersuckers. Shawl collars and notched cuffs and ties in every shade of the spectrum. But you love him best in blue, with a razor-sharp fedora to complete the look. It softens him, makes him deceptively trustworthy.

The night you hustled Jack Conway out of ten large at McGraw's, Charlie was right beside you in a blue suit. He spoke at the right times and leaned the precise way against the table to throw off your opponent, and the gun at his back made sure you weren't distracted yourself.

The last two balls in the final game were the 2 and the 8 - blue and black. You lined up a shot, sunk them both in one last go. Smirked as McGraw shut the place down. Charlie hustled you and your winnings out the door and you were so high on victory, you can barely remember the ride back to the Waldorf.

You remember his mouth against yours as the door to your suite shut.

You remember the look in his eyes as you got to your knees for him.

You remember the way he sounded and tasted and felt as he came shuddering around your cock.

The blue tie with the diamond pattern that he was wearing that night is in a drawer in your wardrobe. You never wear it, but every so often, you think of how it looked on him. One day, you'll buy him another suit with a similar tie, and he'll grin in remembrance. Positive reinforcement, you'll call it.

He'll always say you taught him how to dress.

**Author's Note:**

>  _come stai_ \- how are you?  
>  _busone_ \- a homosexual man taking the passive position; i.e. the catcher/bottom/partner who is penetrated.


End file.
